Your Character's Name: Nolan
Am I ready to die?
Nolan had asked the question of himself innumerable times. A band of young orphans had long ago sworn him to a creed that bound him to an answer. Any life is worth taking if it is to protect my Brother, even if it is my own. The first time he’d said those words, fourteen tattered young boys had echoed them in whispers, an ethereal oath of allegiance to the strength of their bond. He had been ready to die. For twenty years, his life had been an expendable escape strategy at the ready. Beneath the fortress that stood before him, in chinks in the ancient concrete that could only be called “cells” between choked laughs, the MPD had systematically destroyed his purpose for living. For 2 years, a crippled Nolan had been forced to watch each of his brothers tortured and killed in the concrete catacombs buried beneath the Tombstone; in their deaths, he was forced and made to stare as his right to die at their side leached into the cruel stone. The pump on Lester’s shotgun to his right tolled like a church bell, and the four slid from the Tombstone’s shadow; veiled phantoms returning to collect souls on behalf of death. Nolan hoped he could find some part of his own. The first crack of a rifle overhead meant Hal and Hobson had heard the signal, and hopefully were clearing a path to the infiltrator’s entrance. As if on cue, just as the first spotlight cut the deep blue night in alert, the air crushed Nolan’s chest with a painful shock; Syndaquil’s custom explosives obliterated a full corner of the Tombstone’s far side, evaporating the concrete into sand and pebbles and boiling the air. The remaining spotlights ignited to illuminate the panic on the other side of the building, and Lester bolted from cover to break for their door. Two more rifle cracks ripped through the air, and red mist threw two more door sentries to the ground, leaving the third’s back temptingly unguarded. And facing Nolan. No need to distract any attention from their distraction. As if on merciless winged feet, Nolan glided towards his prey, silently drawing the vengeful blade. The thrust didn’t go as he planned. Maybe poetic self-infulgent God-complexes throw off the aim. Now stunned, superficially lacerated and seriously annoyed, the guard thrashed around, trapping Nolan’s blade in his complicated armor. Suddenly, Nolan’s pitiful prey seemed impressively massive and… Shit, those spotlights are really bright when they’re aimed at you… Oh. Oren seemed to be trying to shuck one of the wounded guard’s heads from his shoulders with a pipe when the first bullet ripped through his calf. “Alright, time to go inside,” he said with all the urgency of a Rundown junkie, as he bent down to finish his work on the wriggling blue sentry. Ignoring the wave of rifle fire now boiling the air, he thoughtfully slid his pipe beneath the guard’s chin drove a heavy foot into his spine, shattering the shoulder blades. Two massive limping strides later, he cleared the door, shooting Nolan “I’m surprised that worked” look. There’s no way he hasn’t done that before.* A bullet buried itself inches behind Nolan’s, spraying his legs with painful concrete shrapnel, and Oren’s “inside” advice appeared more and more sound by the second. Still trying to wrench his sword from the wriggling guard, Nolan spun his unruly captive towards the gunfire, hoping to shield himself from— Two red clouds exploded from his shield’s chest. Fuck the sword. He still had Lester’s shotgun and two-and-a-half kilos of Syndaquil’s custom plastic explosive wired to a remote detonator. It was way past sword-time. Nolan dropped the limp soldier and bolted the last few steps through the door with supersonic lead nipping at each of his footfalls. The doorway opened up to the sprawling first floor, and he’d have to make a fast break for the HQ to plant the bomb… Wait… Am I ready to die? Inhale. The fog of suppressed pain rushing in; drowning lungs spasm pitifully, the icy fingers of death curl sadistically about his windpipe and trap the withering vapor in paralyzed lungs. If death left a stench, if the end of a man’s life could stain the ground forever, the Tombstone oozed the vile sludge from every porous capillary in its abused concrete skeleton. His second footfall tore at the bone in his heel, stripped raw against the grinding wheel of pain suppressed; each inch he propelled himself across the floor dragged his limp, dying body across the two years of torturous concrete memory locked in the catacombs beneath death’s concrete throne. Exhale. Nope. Exhale. The icy hand closes tighter. Exhale. His third stride fell with a blunted thud, and torturous black memory encroached on the corners of his vision. Well if you can’t exhale, you… can’t… stop… Nolan felt cold. It was dark and someone was pushing him around. Wasn’t I just running? Why can’t I move my… the hell is that buzzing sound? Did I just black out… “I said, if you move, and you’re fucking dead,” The soldier’s bark still buzzed like a blown speaker, backed by the ghostly ringing overwhelming Nolan’s recovering senses. Their hands were on him, grabbing, pulling… He was on his feet now-- well, his feet were below his head, as far as he could tell. Cold iron on his wrists. Cuffs. Warm blood pulsed through concussed ears, letting Nolan’s fumbling feet find purchase on the slick— I’m cuffed. I’m in the Tombstone. Fourteen brothers butchered, trapped in concrete. Any life is worth taking if it is to protect my Brother, even my own. Their memories were sealed within the icon of their torment. Another would soon – or maybe not soon – spill the sanguine fidelity of his creed across its concrete floor. Here, as long as the eternity this Tombstone will stand, so will I too be preserved, the consecrated Patron Saint of Wasted Providence, betrayer of… They can’t have left that in my jacket. The two-and-a-half kilogram lump strapped to the small of his back only caught his attention when the vice-grip on his left bicep loosened as the soldier reached for his radio, dropping Nolan’s full weight on to his own feet. It may be too late to protect you, Brothers. Satisfying crunches resonated from the guard’s knee through Nolan’s solid boot heel, and the first shotgun blast ignited all of perception into white-hot pain. His cheek seared with chaotic agony as a second salvo tore it away from his face. His fingers fumbled furiously at the package strapped to his back, searching in panic for a single toggle. Nolan would live no longer than this next metallic rack of the slide, and this mattered. But I can still give my life for your memory. Just let me find… The shotgun’s breech raced home to chamber the fresh shell, locked in a dead-sprint towards death with Nolan’s fumbling… Ah, there it is… hehe.
(Author's Note) I know this isn't long enough, but it was what I could get done before 5. I have a bio-final at 5, then a mandatory poetry reading at 7, so I'll hopefully finish the whole story by 9. For now, just use this for critiques. Thanks guys.
(Author's Note 2) So, 0345 is kinda like 9PM, right? Sorry for the delay.Enjoy.
Am I ready to die?
Nolan had asked the question of himself innumerable times. A band of young orphans had long ago sworn him to a creed that bound him to an answer. Any life is worth taking if it is to protect my Brother, even if it is my own. The first time he’d said those words, fourteen tattered young boys had echoed them in whispers, an ethereal oath of allegiance to the strength of their bond. He had been ready to die. For twenty years, his life had been an expendable escape strategy at the ready.
Beneath the fortress that stood before him, in chinks in the ancient concrete that could only be called “cells” between choked laughs, the MPD had systematically destroyed his purpose for living. For 2 years, a crippled Nolan had been forced to watch each of his brothers tortured and killed in the concrete catacombs buried beneath the Tombstone; in their deaths, he was forced and made to stare as his right to die at their side leached into the cruel stone. The pump on Lester’s shotgun to his right tolled like a church bell, and the four slid from the Tombstone’s shadow; veiled phantoms returning to collect souls on behalf of death. Nolan hoped he could find some part of his own.
The first crack of a rifle overhead meant Hal and Hobson had heard the signal, and hopefully were clearing a path to the infiltrator’s entrance. As if on cue, just as the first spotlight cut the deep blue night in alert, the air crushed Nolan’s chest with a painful shock; Syndaquil’s custom explosives obliterated a full corner of the Tombstone’s far side, evaporating the concrete into sand and pebbles and boiling the air. The remaining spotlights ignited to illuminate the panic on the other side of the building, and Lester bolted from cover to break for their door. Two more rifle cracks ripped through the air, and red mist threw two more door sentries to the ground, leaving the third’s back temptingly unguarded. And facing Nolan. No need to distract any attention from their distraction. As if on merciless winged feet, Nolan glided towards his prey, silently drawing the vengeful blade.
The thrust didn’t go as he planned. Maybe poetic self-infulgent God-complexes throw off the aim. Now stunned, superficially lacerated and seriously annoyed, the guard thrashed around, trapping Nolan’s blade in his complicated armor. Suddenly, Nolan’s pitiful prey seemed impressively massive and…
Shit, those spotlights are really bright when they’re aimed at you… Oh.
Oren seemed to be trying to shuck one of the wounded guard’s heads from his shoulders with a pipe when the first bullet ripped through his calf.
“Alright, time to go inside,” he said with all the urgency of a Rundown junkie, as he bent down to finish his work on the wriggling blue sentry. Ignoring the wave of rifle fire now boiling the air, he thoughtfully slid his pipe beneath the guard’s chin drove a heavy foot into his spine, shattering the shoulder blades. Two massive limping strides later, he cleared the door, shooting Nolan “I’m surprised that worked” look.
There’s no way he hasn’t done that before.*
A bullet buried itself inches behind Nolan’s, spraying his legs with painful concrete shrapnel, and Oren’s “inside” advice appeared more and more sound by the second. Still trying to wrench his sword from the wriggling guard, Nolan spun his unruly captive towards the gunfire, hoping to shield himself from—
Two red clouds exploded from his shield’s chest. Fuck the sword. He still had Lester’s shotgun and two-and-a-half kilos of Syndaquil’s custom plastic explosive wired to a remote detonator. It was way past sword-time. Nolan dropped the limp soldier and bolted the last few steps through the door with supersonic lead nipping at each of his footfalls. The doorway opened up to the sprawling first floor, and he’d have to make a fast break for the HQ to plant the bomb… Wait…
Am I ready to die?
Inhale. The fog of suppressed pain rushing in; drowning lungs spasm pitifully, the icy fingers of death curl sadistically about his windpipe and trap the withering vapor in paralyzed lungs. If death left a stench, if the end of a man’s life could stain the ground forever, the Tombstone oozed the vile sludge from every porous capillary in its abused concrete skeleton. His second footfall tore at the bone in his heel, stripped raw against the grinding wheel of pain suppressed; each inch he propelled himself across the floor dragged his limp, dying body across the two years of torturous concrete memory locked in the catacombs beneath death’s concrete throne.
Exhale. Nope. Exhale. The icy hand closes tighter. Exhale. His third stride fell with a blunted thud, and torturous black memory encroached on the corners of his vision. Well if you can’t exhale, you… can’t… stop…
Nolan felt cold. It was dark and someone was pushing him around. Wasn’t I just running? Why can’t I move my… the hell is that buzzing sound? Did I just black out…
“I said, if you move, and you’re fucking dead,” The soldier’s bark still buzzed like a blown speaker, backed by the ghostly ringing overwhelming Nolan’s recovering senses. Their hands were on him, grabbing, pulling… He was on his feet now-- well, his feet were below his head, as far as he could tell. Cold iron on his wrists. Cuffs. Warm blood pulsed through concussed ears, letting Nolan’s fumbling feet find purchase on the slick—
I’m cuffed. I’m in the Tombstone.
Fourteen brothers butchered, trapped in concrete.
Any life is worth taking if it is to protect my Brother, even my own.
Their memories were sealed within the icon of their torment. Another would soon – or maybe not soon – spill the sanguine fidelity of his creed across its concrete floor.
Here, as long as the eternity this Tombstone will stand, so will I too be preserved, the consecrated Patron Saint of Wasted Providence, betrayer of…
They can’t have left that in my jacket.
The two-and-a-half kilogram lump strapped to the small of his back only caught his attention when the vice-grip on his left bicep loosened as the soldier reached for his radio, dropping Nolan’s full weight on to his own feet.
It may be too late to protect you, Brothers.
Satisfying crunches resonated from the guard’s knee through Nolan’s solid boot heel, and the first shotgun blast ignited all of perception into white-hot pain. His cheek seared with chaotic agony as a second salvo tore it away from his face. His fingers fumbled furiously at the package strapped to his back, searching in panic for a single toggle. Nolan would live no longer than this next metallic rack of the slide, and this mattered.
But I can still give my life for your memory. Just let me find…
The shotgun’s breech raced home to chamber the fresh shell, locked in a dead-sprint towards death with Nolan’s fumbling…
Ah, there it is… hehe.
FWATHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMSPLOSIONS!!!
(Author's Note) I know this isn't long enough, but it was what I could get done before 5. I have a bio-final at 5, then a mandatory poetry reading at 7, so I'll hopefully finish the whole story by 9. For now, just use this for critiques. Thanks guys.
(Author's Note 2) So, 0345 is kinda like 9PM, right? Sorry for the delay.Enjoy.